Spotlight Fever [Chaos]

I knew that it was a bad idea to stay. I should have thanked him and just left. But my stomach betrayed me. I chew on my lip and stare at the buttons that now litter the floor. Black buttons on white background, white buttons on black background, over and over. I withdraw and give a soft whimper of surprise when he jabs a finger at my chest. While the jab certainly did not hurt me much, the feeling of pressure where he pressed his finger into my skin resides.

While he seethes and shouts at me, I bite at my nails with an almost frantic obsession. It's a habit that I can not break. While I am obsessively compulsive about staying clean and perfect, the nail biting can not be prevented. I bite until he stops shouting and starts pacing. He's got the photograph. I can leave without the rest... but the photograph is irreplaceable. It dawns on me that he will not be returning the picture unless I tell him the truth. I stare at the young boy, a look of reluctance clear on my face and cross my arms over my chest in a defensive stance.

The expression on his face is now a mingled mix of pure outrage over the fact that I stole from him and something else. Maybe curiousity? Maybe alertness? Maybe confusion. I can't place the emotion and vaguely trace a hand over my hair to settle my own mixed emotions. I swallow once, then again and shuffle my feet with impatience. My mind is having difficulties recollecting my past.

"I... I... well. I don't have any parents." There. It's out. May I leave now? But I also know that this doesn't cut it. He wants the whole truth. I'm leaving out the asylum. I can't tell anyone about that. Technically, I don't even exist. "They died long ago. That's all I remember." That's as much as I can tell him. I long to know just how they died. They whispered things at the closed-ward, told me that my parents died horrific, gruesome, bloody deaths that left me envisioning it over and again. Now, the rice.

I close my eyes as a wave of something that I decide must be shame washes over me. Shame doesn't feel very good. "When I went into the cellar... and I saw all of that food. I don't know... that was wrong. I'm sorry." Apology. It feels thick and unwanted on my tongue and I am glad when I have finally spit it out. My face burns something horrible and I stare in longing at the piece of crumpled paper he holds in his hand.

The jar containing Cassius is still on the ground. I give Julian a look that asks if it is alright to move now and crouch down, picking up the small jar. I feel slightly bad that he fell over and make a quick mental note to find some good leaves for him later. "So... no, I don't have a turkey to go home to."

Oh, no... he's going to take the photograph and keep it. I watch, my throat unnaturally dry as he pockets the slip that contains everything I know about my past. But I tell myself that it does not matter. That I will get it back at any possible length. I'm momentarily confused when he picks up the satchel that is ripped at the seam, from which the necessities and the compound of my existence tumbled onto the checkerboard floor. My eyes automatically well with tears of desperation, reaching out as if to rip my belongings from his grip, but he does not carry the malicious look I was expecting. He looks strangely determined and there is an odd flicker of something that I decide must be sympathy there.

Then he disappears, so quickly that I am dazed for a fragment of a second. But he's got the photograph! Panic fills me and I turn on my heel, half-running, half-tripping after him. His footfalls against the stairs make enough of a ruckus to wake the dead and I am quick to follow him up the wooden stairs.

I still have no idea what he plans on doing. Maybe he'll hide the photograph? But he has no reason to do that. I stole a bag of rice. I don't really understand why he is making such a fuss about it. He has loads! I saw it! He's got enough food to last for ages and ages and here he is making an elephant out of this mosquito of an issue. I feel like yelling at him but I just follow him toward a room that is only dimly lit. The room smells nice. Of orange and shea butter and a sheet of strange tranquility calms me before I have even set a foot into the room.

He's busy, hunched over my satchel, a sharp needle and a strip of thread in his hand. He's sewing my satchel back together again! Now I feel ashamed once again. I thought ill of him, the worst possible ill and here he is... helping me when he really should not care. I stand in the darkness of the doorway, one hand perched against the frame of the door, the other holding onto the jar that contains Cassius. I couldn't very well leave him downstairs.

Julian's stooped over the needlework and I don't dare breathe out too loud, in case of disturbing him. He works with meticulous and learned expertise and a patience that I wished I possessed. I am no patient person and I admire this in him. I am so calmed by this picture he paints with the soft moonlight and the faint glow of the candle, that his sudden voice surprises me. I blink, vaguely aware that I was drifting off. "Yes?" My voice is strangely hushed, as though I am afraid that a loud sound will destory this peace. His offer takes me by surprise.

I stare at him in bewilderment. He must be mad. He can not honestly be offering this after I stole from him? But he still has the photograph and I can not leave without them. "That's nice." I could have said more. Usually, if he wasn't holding my photograph, I would have protested and declined his offer. "That's really nice of you." Then I freeze in place as I hear strange noises coming from downstairs. "Did you hear that?" I'm alert now, aware that we are not altogether alone. "It's coming from right below... isn't that... isn't that your father's study?" I stare down, in horror at the floorboards beneath my feet as though I could see right through it.

My heart jumps and even though he says that I am merely being silly and that there is no way that anything or anyone is down there, I feel a sharp jolt run through me as another eerie sound trails swiftly through the house. Maybe I am being silly, but that definitely does not sound normal. Not at all. My eyes widen when he suddenly tugs at my arm, pulling me towards the stairs. Is he crazy? Has he gone completely mad? Does he not know that it is never okay to go towards the strange and very-not-normal sound? Ever. I dig my feet into the wooden floorboards, hoping that the friction will cause him to let go my arm, but that does not help me much. The floor is smoother than I had anticpated and causes me to stagger before I manage to regain my footing.

"Jules," I whisper quite close to his ear. "Maybe it's better if we - I don't know - don'tgo down there?" Despite feeling terrified, I can not quite keep the sarcastic edge out of my tone. I've always been afraid of ghosts and demons. They're haunted my sleepless nights. They are always there, the ghosts. The sounds are all strangely familiar. The clanking, the creaking, even the moaning. I've heard this before. But how... and when? Julian comes to a somewhat shaky stop before me and holds his lantern aloft. When another moan shakes the house, I hear myself exhale loudly and sharply, the air pressed out thinly between my teeth. I barely register the nails cutting at my skin as Julian's fingers claw tightly into my shirt. I am too focused on the door. The sounds are definitely coming from in there. I remember the mental institution now.

They would leave me, strapped to a cold metal table for days on end. Everything was always completely dark, except for the outline of the door, the fluorescent lighting in the corridor shining a thin speck of light into my room. I would concentrate on staring at the peel of light whenever I got really scared. Gradually, even the cruel cold of the table became insignificant. It was nothing compared to the sounds coming from what I was sure were the other patients' rooms.

I could hear cries of pain following the sharp buzzing that I guessed were the electroshockers, the hollowed-out sounding whimpers that no human should ever have to make, the animalistic shrieks of rage and terror, the floods of noisy tears and uncontrolled sobbing, the nervous chattering and clanging, banging, smashing sounds of objects being destroyed. It was never silent, not even when they left me alone completely. Even if the patients in the rooms next to mine were quiet, I could always recall their dreadful screaming and that played on in my mind. Sometimes, once it got lighter, I could see the deep scratches in the walls. They were always human made and bloodstained. There was always blood on the walls in the corridors. No one gave any thought to those anymore. They became just as commonplace as the terrible screams did night after night.

These moans are very familiar. They sound like a human. Like a human in pain. They sound just like the patients had back then. I look back at Julian and see his face white with fear and even see the glistening pearls that are tears in his eyes. Oh, please. "Julian, listen here," I say, my voice firmer now and strengthened. "Those sounds are human. We've got to help whoever is down there." Not caring if he will follow me, I take the last few precautionary steps towards the oaken door and grab the slim handle in my hand. I can hear the definitive sounds of crying now. It's the type of uncontrollable crying that its owner is attempting to control, resulting in the irritating hiccups. I throw another look over my shoulder to see if Julian is following me. Then, swallowing all of my fear, I twist the handle and the door swings, almost effortlessly, open.

I have been prepared for a lot. But not for this. It looks like a scene from a horror flick. But not something that should be in a wealthy man's study. Unsurprisingly, there is a large square mahogany that takes over the centerfold of the room. Behind it stands a grand and imposing looking chair. There are stacks of white paper and ink pens. It looks almost normal. Were it not for the malnourished young girl on the opposite side of the room. Against the whitewashed wall, lies a grimy looking blanket-less, moth-eaten mattress. The sheets that should have been on it are nowhere to be found. The girl in question is slumped against the wall, her bony knees on the mattress, her tiny wrist hangs limply in a cuffed link that is chained to the wall.

Everything looks as if, were it desired, the mattress, the chain and the girl could be tucked away somewhere and the study would look like a normal study again. The mattress is stained with some sickly smelling substance and I don't dare approach it any further. The girl has thick curls of a golden-brown colour that now hang as lank and lifeless as the girl herself. She's alive though, I can hear her muffled and quiet crying. She looks frozen and starved and altogether in a bad condition. I'm over at the girl's side in seconds and carefully tilt her head upwards so that her eyes meet mine. She flinches violently and fear flares up in her eyes immediately. Something registers in her mind because the fear is replaced by question. "Don't worry. We'll get you out of here." I look over at Julian. "Jules... help me?"